


Names

by purglepurglepurgle



Category: Final Fantasy VII (Video Game 1997)
Genre: Gen, Slice of Life, but mostly at my sibling, how do you even tag this, poking fun in a few directions
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-03-06
Updated: 2020-03-06
Packaged: 2021-02-28 20:07:09
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,508
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23032951
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/purglepurglepurgle/pseuds/purglepurglepurgle
Summary: Tseng going around being an old-fashioned grouch.
Comments: 4
Kudos: 31





	Names

"Black coffee," says Tseng, at the small Costa Del Sol stand. He's got an hour to kill before his ferry leaves. His suit (why must it be navy?) is sticking to his back in the heat, his hair wet with grease. Sun and sand is better at a distance.

"One black coffee, coming right up!" The blond man at the till smiles, shaded by his cart. "What name will that be under?"

"Tseng," says Tseng, but with his coffee-shop pronunciation, crisp and phonetic. He expects this to be sufficient, but the man pauses, pen in hand.

"Spelled with a 'z'?" asks the man.

Tseng should just say 'yes', but he has been tailing a mark (coincidentally died this morning in a freak accident involving 20 gunshots), and he hasn't spoken to anyone in days. So, instead, this stumbles out of his mouth: "No, it's not a 'z', actually-- but it doesn't matter."

The cashier looks affronted. "Of _course_ it matters! It's your _name_!" He's quite young, and his hair is asymmetrical; Tseng suspects he reads a lot of indignant blogposts.

"T-S, not Z," says Tseng, quickly, before he's asked to spell it out letter-by-letter when he just wants a damn coffee.

Coffee (finally) ordered, he sits down on a bench by the stall. There's a group of men on the far edge, waiting for their own order. Tseng can't work out why there's a wait (he's ordered here before; he's sure it's instant coffee), but the parasol casts a welcome shadow, and he has nowhere better to go. The other men are deep in conversation when there's a shout.

"Dan? Your order is ready!" An old woman lifts a tray of cups, arms shaking; the men get up. "I'm sorry," she adds, struggling to balance the tray, "I made a mistake and I put ginger syrup instead of cinnamon, I can make it again if you want?"

"That's fine," says one of the men, smiling and taking the cups.

Tseng's cashier's head pops up. "You know, you can say if it's not okay; we can fix it." He sounds very earnest.

"It's fine, really." The man gives another awkward smile and tries to move away.

"I just want to make sure my grandmother's not guilting you." The cashier's eyebrows are furrowed, his gaze intense.

Tseng realises he's twisting his own head like an owl. He gives himself a shake. The men take their coffee and hurry off.

The old woman shouts out the next order: "Tuhseng! Tuhseng!", demonstrating one of the five million reasons why Tseng doesn't care how anyone spells his name. He gives her a small bow, takes the coffee and leaves.

*

On the ferry, he overhears a couple of women, red from the sun:

"So, get this, Beth and Wutaian-Steve, they've named their kid 'Anniii', A-N-N-I-I-I. Not _Annie_ , with an 'i-e'; _Anniii_ , with _three_ 'i's-- just to be different!"

"People these days! Self-obsessed, that's what it is. What's wrong with good old-fashioned 'Annie'? Why change it? Why does everyone have to be _special_? If you ask me..."

They drift away, out of earshot.

Tseng idly wonders if they'll ever discover that 'Anniii' is a (clumsy) transliteration of the Wutaian word for 'baby', and has absolutely nothing to do with the name they're more familiar with. It's a stupid name for a person, but not for the reasons they think.

*

A week later, back in Midgar, Tseng, Reno, Rude and Elena huddle around a table at a shadowy bar, the air thick with smoke. The venue strains to look shabby and ramshackle, but Tseng knows this street charges some of the highest rent in the city, and there are 3 identical bars in this sector alone, with the same mismatched chairs and bare bricks. Turns out chains can charge more if they don't bother to paint the walls. The mark sits across the room-- still surrounded by too many bodyguards to be worth the fight. So they order their drinks, and wait. Warily, Tseng eyes the stage at the front. There's a microphone on a stand in the center.

Tseng wishes it were a different bar.

"Here we fuckin' go," mutters Reno. A small, Wutaian-looking girl, about 20 years old, in traditional dress, takes to the stage, to a smattering of applause.

Tseng glances at their mark. Full pint glass. No luck.

The girl picks up the mic, clears her throat, and begins her spoken-word poetry:

_"My father_

_Named me_

_So many years ago._

_By the time I had seen two winters--_

_Cold, dark, Midgar winters, far from the land of my father's youth and his parents--_

_He was forced to retreat, homeward-fled, unable to bear the cold--"_

("Ah, no, see, don't go makin' excuses for that shit--" starts Reno, but Elena hushes him)

_"My mother had no need to flee;_

_For her, Midgar was home;_

_And with a mother's love, she held me_

_Between her four cold walls,_

_And raised me,_

_Alone--_

_But she did not speak my name._

_My name, with its soft 'e',_

_That rhymes with desert sands,_

_In my people's native tongue._

_Warm, gentle, as the land itself;_

_Sun and mountains, side by side--_

_Wutai._

_My **name** ,_

_My grandmother's before me--_

_And hers before her?_

_I'll never know._

_My father is gone._

_And my mother is a Midgar woman,_

_Pale hair and eyes and skin that burns in the sun,_

_And when she says my name--_

_Her coarse approximation--_

_The vowel is hard and harsh;_

_Steel girders scraping, cars and asphalt, the howl of the wind;_

_Grey and cold_

_So very cold._

_She would attempt to nurture me, using that name,_

_Imagining me a fragile offshoot,_

_Imagining she was helping me to grow._

_But all those years, her voice was cold metal,_

_Driving into the earth,_

_Severing my roots:_

_Invisible violence."_

Tseng's incredulous snort is drowned out as the crowd claps. The host thanks the girl; she bows and wipes away a tear, with a stoic smile.

"Hangabout," says Reno, as the girl leaves the stage, "so lemme get this straight, ya dad fucked off, ya ma hadta raise ya alone, an' you're bitchin' about how she pronounces ya _name_?! Kiddo, she can call ya fuckin' ' _Gumdrop_ ' if she wants! Ifrit's sweaty ballsack, I swear..." Reno continues to mutter under his breath, and Tseng feels a rush of affection. General Affairs have their exasperating days, but there are moments like this, when, more than anyone else in the world, they feel like his people.

"You're doing a better job of connecting with her _roots_ than she is," Tseng tells him, as he leads them out of the bar and into the cool night air; he's decided he'd rather abort the mission than risk sticking around for more poetry. With a fire materia, he lights a couple of cigarettes, and passes one to Reno, who's still swearing. The team wanders over to an alley. They loiter at the entrance: their patch. Tseng pockets his materia, and continues, "Rule one: Respect Your Mother." He shakes his head. "I'm bad at it, but that was on another level. I didn't think I was a traditionalist, but every cell in my body is still shuddering. Looks like I'm reformed."

"Maybe that's what she was going for?" says Rude, e-cigarette neon blue in the dark.

Tseng snorts. "Modern Narcissism: a chilling demonstration? Make us rethink our selfish ways and reject Shinra? You're onto something." The cigarette is warm between his fingers as he inhales. "At this rate, I'll have to call my parents and apologise. And retrain as a doctor. Rufus won't be happy. This is going to be difficult." Clouds billow. The smoke is comforting, and better in the cold.

"I was thinking it was a bit weird," says Elena, tentatively. "The way she shouted, it kind of sounded like she was blaming her mum for getting sunburn?" She hesitates. "But, I mean, I think I got what she was saying; it can't be easy, being cut off like that..."

"Cut off from what?" says Tseng, sharply. "She said it herself, she's from Midgar. You can't miss somewhere you've never been. She's built Wutai up as a self-serving fantasy dreamworld, and she's in for a rude awakening if she ever visits. Nobody'll care about her name over there, either. Our vowels are just vowels." He inhales again.

"I guess..." Elena pauses. "I just, I thought she was more saying, you know, things like names get buried and disappear, and then there was the war, and, um, I'm not putting it well, but... Just, we need to preserve them, I guess?"

Tseng shakes his head, stubbing the cigarette out on the wall. "Her name isn't rare. It's just rare here. She needs to get over herself."

Elena looks down the street. The distant houses are misted with reactor-light, all of them prefab concrete. She sighs. "I don’t know. The dress was so pretty. Those _sleeves_..."

"Yeah, she mastered the hairstyle and the outfit." Tseng smiles, eyes glinting. He tosses his cigarette butt into a puddle. "Very Shinra."


End file.
